


Punishable by Finding

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Bondage, Confinement, Creampie, Doggy Style, F/M, Facials, Hair-pulling, Horror, Kidnapping, Rape, Reader is AFAB - Freeform, Reader-Insert, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, mask kink, the mask stays on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-05 22:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16375886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After spending some time alone during a forest camping trip with friends, the infamous Slasher 76 comes to claim a new victim.





	Punishable by Finding

With bare, bleeding feet through the mist-choked forests and thorny brambles that claw at your ankles with seemingly predatory designs, you run without reason, screaming for help that isn’t there. Even as your blood pounds like the savage war drums of Neolithic tribes in your head, you can hear his chainsaw-rifle roaring as he holds high in the frosty air. It vomits forth so much acrid exhaust and brutal heat, you swear you can taste the gasoline fumes and feel the heat curling the stiff hairs on the back of your neck. Even worst, as you begin to stagger more and more from utter exhaustion, he only gets faster. 

Slasher 76 only gets hungrier for you.

Cold sweat stabs into your eyes. As you try to frantically clear the distraction from your visage, you stumble over a log made slippery by wet moss. Face first, you smash into the ground hard enough to see a field of stars going supernova inside your head. But you still continue to crawl forward on your hands and knees, desperately trying to ignore the slithering sensation on your forehead that you don’t want to admit is your blood. 

Despite your best, arm-shaking efforts, Slasher 76 is on you within seconds. He flips you over and grabs you by your left calf, agitating your preexisting wounds. While you shriek and flail about like a mouse caught under a hungry cat’s claw, you catch a glimpse of his face. Like all hockey masks belonging to serial killers of his level of unstoppable brutality, it’s an expressionless mien designed to stroke the most primal fear of the faceless stranger in his victims. You also notice something is different about the orange eyes and mouth slits. Something even more wrong. They’re not just glowing, but are ablaze with an evil so intrinsic and deep-rooted, it rivals the demonic hellfire ranted about by the most insane of priests.

Mortified by the terror of that mere glimpse, you scream, “Don’t touch me! Don’t hurt me, please!”

But he doesn’t listen. Butchers have no business listening to the babble of fear-mad cattle. Indifferent of your suffering, he picks up his chainsaw-rifle, turns around, and begins to drag you to some unknown location you don’t want to discover. You try to kick free with your un-grabbed leg, but stop once your right thigh hurts so much it begins to tremble. Pointy branches and other little bits of cold detritus cling in your hair. It’s as if the material is giving you an early welcome to your new final home. With the better options of reasoning or escape dead as you might soon be, you gulp and decide to go on the offensive. Either way, when he finally spills your guts, you’ll die knowing you spilled a little bit of his blood, too.

Once you finished a nonsensical but heartfelt prayer inside your mind, you attempt to furtively grab a nice, concussion-giving rock or something better. Your fingers eventually find purchase around a piece of flat slate. It feels hefty enough to do some meaningful damage, but light and aerodynamic enough to not make your last-ditch effort look even more pitiful if you fail. Sucking one shaky breath though your chattering teeth, you throw the rock towards the back of his head. You hope the parable of David versus Goliath wasn’t just an allegory. 

It strikes true, opening a crimson gash amongst the hoary hairs of his wild head. Without missing a beat, he collapses knees first on the ground and attempts to staunch the profuse blood flow now running down his back in rivulets. His animalistic roars of incomprehensible rage are muffled by his mask. Taking advantage of his agony, you manage to pick yourself off the floor and shamble away. Automatically placing one foot in front of the other, you make steady progress until his screaming is like a bad memory. You skulk away until you make it towards an older tree. It is overlooking a crystal clear lake with a mirror-like surface. 

Despite your lizard brain telling you to keep fleeing from the existential threat deeper in the woods, you grab the tree’s rough bark, and slide down it for a moment’s respite. Legs wide open and head lolling to the left, you wheeze as you take inventory of your sorry physical state. Everything hurts. Nothing is spared. So once the adrenaline peters off, you close your eyes and involuntarily pass out seconds later.

How foolishly unfortunate.

You awaken to hear something stepping on twigs, and know for a fact that couldn’t be a deer. So you hastily prepare to run away after standing up, but find your neck in Slasher 76’s noose-like grasp as soon as you’re erect. He pins you to the tree like you’re St. Sebastian, digging his fingers into the sides of your throat with similar murderous intentions. Instinctively, you try to pry the hand off your windpipe before it’s too much. But no matter how hard you try, it all goes to naught. 

You’re left standing there, arms limp and hanging, staring into his furious orange eyes. With nothing else left to do but die, you give up and wheeze until it’s all over. But instead of a tightening hand on your throat or a chainsaw bite that makes everything go black, Slasher 76 raises his free, blood drenched hand. It’s as if he wants to politely ask you a question. This goes on for several seconds until he reaches out towards your face. He smears your nose and mouth with his own spilled blood. It feels cold and slippery, like the forced kiss of some foul nocturnal monster.

You want to scream at the top of your lungs, but all that comes out is a pitiful croak. Slasher 76 shakes his head, then punches you once in the stomach. Your eyes go wide. As he lets go of your throat, you crumble on the ground. Moaning, you helplessly assume the fetal position and even cry a little. Crippled by the unbelievable amount of abdominal pain, you can do nothing as he throws you over his shoulder without even a grunt. 

He walks away from the tree in total silence, allowing you to pass out once more.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, you come to with a jarring start, facing a wooden wall. From what you can immediately gather, Slasher 76 stashed you away in a small, musty wooden shack without much insulation. The temperature inside is not freezing cold, but low enough to make your nipples stiff against your shirt. 

Above you, the only light provided is a single eerie bulb, casting sickly yellow light on everything. It flickers. When you attempt to stand up, you discover you’re lying on your side, and likely to stay that away until he returns. Your arms are in bondage you don’t even need to be a BDSM expert to know they’re inescapable. Around your wrists and higher up your arms are coarse ropes wound painfully tight about your pliable flesh. You would attempt to struggle, but know that would result in your sensitive skin being gnawed open by the ropes. So all you do is wait, flinching each time the lightbulb flickers.

After losing another staring match with the uncanny, face-like whorls of the wooden wall, you finally hear a door creak open behind you. Closing your eyes tight, you freeze every part of your body. Childishly stupid as it, you hope he thinks you have died of fear, leading to him to leave you alone. 

That is not the case. 

The wooden boards under his weight groan as he crouches behind you. He roughly grabs some of your long, matted hair, and begins to inhale its forest and fear laced scent. Even if he initially brought your last-ditch ploy of faking your death, your whimpering would’ve ruined that. Slasher 76 wastes no time hauling you up to your feet, making you face him. It’s still the same glowing mask from the last time you saw it, but something feels more focused about it. In fact, it reminds you of the bloody face of a panther that has its paws around the opened neck of a gazelle it caught.

Gathering up all the shuddery breath you can, you ask, “Well, what are you going to do to me now? Stab me a thousand times? Gut me like a fish? Strangle me until my eyes pop out my head?”

He says nothing. He just stares at you.

You feel like he’s taunting you, trying to make this murderous ritual as sadistically drawn out and painful as possible before he ends it. Anger flares up in your chest, burning away your fear.  
You puff your chest out a rather masculine way, as if that could do anything useful. “What kind of psycho killer asshole can murder a bunch of people, but not even give his single victim a simple nod or head shake? Fuck you, soldier boy!”

He continues to stare at you, unmoved.

Your lip quivers and you feel angry spittle fill your previously fear dried mouth. Still, you fight the irrational impulses telling you to spit on his mask. There’s foolish like you throwing a rock at a serial killer’s head to defend yourself. Then there’s suicidal like you spitting in a serial killer’s face in his own home.

Slasher 76 tilts his head then pushing you with into the wall behind you. Arms first, you hit the wall at a funny angle. You cry out, but remain standing there, expecting a sharp sensation seconds later in your throat, chest, or stomach to finish you off. But for some reason, it doesn’t come. You remain alive for now, and angrier then before. So you spit on his boot. Slasher 76 looks down at the slime running down his boot then you, shrugging.

Slasher 76 then walks over to his vile, uncovered mattress in the corner of the shack you couldn’t previously see, and lifts it by a corner. He slips a hand underneath it, and returns with a well-used pornographic magazine that has long lost its glossy cover. Slasher 76 opens up a page, exposing it to you. On it, there is a tied-up blonde woman with fake breasts the size of juice swollen grapefruits. She is sucking off an over-muscled man in a white mask that renders him a faceless, domineering figure. Just like Slasher 76. 

You gasp, realizing what he wants is as foul and tangible as the dried semen is on the pornographic page. 

“No, no, no! To hell with that!” You press your tensing back against the wooden wall, ignoring the splinters digging into your back. “If you put your gross cock anywhere near my mouth, I swear to god I’ll bite it off.”

Slasher 76 rips off his ratty jacket, and peels off his rattier t-shirt. This exposes his bulging pectorals and toned stomach. Both glisten with the sweat he accrued during the chase. You can see they both consist of nothing but hard muscle and mounds of scar tissue. While this would look fantastic on another man, this looks nothing short of nightmarish, inflating his already monstrous repulsiveness. 

He advances on you.

Utterly defense, you scream as he claims a fistful of your hair and attempts to force you on your knees. The struggle is a one-sided affair, as it takes him only a few seconds to get you there. As your hear Slasher 76 breathing hard for the first time of the night you remember, he uses his free hand to unzip his grey jeans. He angrily fights with the zipper for a bit, but to your angry dismay, he gets his cock free. It flops out with a weird kind of apathy, yet everything else about it looks ready for action. His thick pale shaft is bulging with meaty, lively veins, and the even thicker, pinkish head twitches in anticipation. A steady stream of crystal-clear precum runs from the head’s slit, lubricating his dick’s undercarriage down to the base covered by hoary hair.

As much as you loathe seeing such a fine tool turned towards foul machinations, the savage virility of it makes your heart thump in your chest. But you still do turn away, feeling your face grow hot as your righteous anger fades and panic replaces it. 

Slasher 76 has better uses of you than watching you look away from him. So he twists your hair back towards him in a cruel way that causes staggering amounts of pain to arc down your scalp. You shriek loud enough to make your throat hurt.

Taking advantage of your screaming mouth, he jams his cock into your throat, instantly silencing you. Eyes wide with shock, it all feels unreal for a few seconds until he begins to force himself deeply into your mouth, slapping his balls against your chin. This brings you back to reality in the worst way possible – gagging and slobbering on a strange man’s cock in a tiny wooden shack. He gives you no quarter, pumping in and out of your jaw like he’s unaware or simply doesn’t care that you need to breathe. Feeling fainter by the second, you attempt to scream for mercy. But all you seem to do is stimulate him further through vibration while helplessly gurgling.

This appears to be too much for him to handle. With little warning on your end, Slasher 76 rips himself out of your throat and begins to ejaculate. He sprays your dazed face down with multiple thick shots of cum. His blasts that don’t sting your eyes or coat the inside of your mouth slither down your wet lips and trembling chin, eventually mixing with the spit and mucus already covering your chest. Maybe because of oxygen deprivation or acute dissociation, you chuckle. You’re glad there’s no mirror to accurately assess how ruined you must look.

Still hard and throbbing for more, Slasher 76 flips you on your stomach. It feels as if the cold floor rushes to meet your hot, cum-slick skin. He uses one hand to mash the side of your cum-covered face into the rough wooden floor, and uses his other for even more nefarious purposes. Forcing your bottom to be raised nice and high in the air, he begins to pull at your pants to access the prize that is your nether region. You futilely attempt to wiggle out of his grasp. But as usual, he gets his way instead of yours, eventually exposing your ass and pussy towards him. When you intensify your wiggling, he reacts by swatting your left ass cheek. The sharp pain makes you want to jump out of your skin.

“Jesus Christ!” You scream, whimpering soon afterwards. “Just please, please stop-“

He doesn’t stop. Instead he goes for your right cheek, slapping it with double the fury of the first one. You grit your teeth, but still fail to take the blow more dignity this time. You feel a few tears rim your eyes. After the next barrage of slaps and the occasional teasing pinch, you can do nothing but weep, half-moan, and half-scream. Times warps as the torture builds up, and you lose yourself within your own head.

Rendered dizzy with endorphins, it takes you a few seconds to notice that he slipped two gloved fingers into your vagina. As if inspecting the quality of your canal, he moves his fingers about in a vaguely circular fashion. This roughly tests the limits of your elasticity and depth. Blushing, you begin to pant with a wide open mouth. And soon enough, mindlessly try to push against the fingers for more pleasure. He denies you this by slapping your ass one final time then pulling out his fingers. You feel empty for a small while until the lost sensation is replaced with a blunt-headed, throbbing one. He spends some time rubbing the needy head of his cock outside your swollen lower lips, deliciously teasing you.

You grumble. “Please…please, go crazy on me, killer.”

And he obliges. Without much gentleness or grace, but with plenty of force and gusto, he pushes past your lips, claiming your soaking cunt as his personal plaything. You suck in a succession of quick, shallow breaths, and soon shift your hips this way and that way to accommodate his monstrous girth. He looked big on the outside, yet he feels truly massive on the inside. You swear you can feel him throbbing as he delves deeper.

Oddly enough, his hand that holds your face down trembles then stabilizes. You can tell his entry was almost too much for him, and you grin at that thought. You keep that little ember of revenge close to your heart even as he ravages you. 

Establishing a steady pace, Slasher 76 begins to fuck you like he owns every part of you. He’s huffing and snorting away behind his mask, giving you waves of electric pleasure every time he pulls out then rushes back in. As the helpless receiver of his punishing cock, you simply lay there and moan so much you begin to drool. This utter nightmare has become more or less of a twisted wet dream.

When enough of his long, powerful strokes fill you, your inner walls clamp down on him like a coiling serpent. This has always been your tell-tale sign of a climax, and judging by the savage strength and animalistic need of your clenching, this next one will be intense. As unbelievable bliss curls around your spine like kudzu on a telephone pole, your toes to curl as well, and you orgasm. You bite your lower lip hard enough to draw beads of blood and experience full body quaking underneath Slasher 76. You whisper his cursed name inside your pleasure-mad skull.

Following suit, he explosively spills his seed within you, grunting the entire time. There is so much that not all of it can remain within you, and it runs down both of your inner thighs. Hot and sticky like some melted candy, it tickles more than you expected. Your post-orgasm halo enables you to laugh madly in spite of yourself.

He pulls out with a minute sucking sound and stands up. He flips you over on your back, and kneels closer to watch his creampie burble out of your pussy. As he watches, you hope your birth control works because no matter how much of an unbelievable fucking this evil bastard gave you, you would have no part in carrying his vile seed to fruition.

Slasher 76 picks a sharp knife somewhere off the floor of his shack. After using it to slash apart your rope bondage, he throws his jacket on you, then opens his door. Frigid air crawls across your skin, reducing your volcanic skin to cold mountain ranges of goosebumps. The door opening is an implicit message to leave, and the knife gripped in his gloved hand is an explicit one. After looking at Slasher 76’s emotionless face one final time, you exit his residence.

Still barefoot but now well-guarded from the cold by his jacket, you walk through the moonlit woods, wincing or grimacing every time the slightest step causes his biological memento to leak from your canal.


End file.
